


Farmer and the Farstrider

by Krimzie



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Dogs, F/M, Farmer Nathanos, First Meetings, Mistaken Identity, Romance, before the scourge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-17
Updated: 2019-02-12
Packaged: 2019-10-11 20:35:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17453852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Krimzie/pseuds/Krimzie
Summary: One thing was for certain - the farm boy was good with a bow.Nathanos Marris and Sylvanas Windrunner have an eventful first meeting. Pre-Scourge.





	1. You Shot Me

 

The sun was setting over the outskirts of Lordaeron, shafts of orange light spilling over the roofs of the small hovels and barns. How _quaint_. How _boring_. Sylvanas Windrunner, half-heartedly prowling the forest’s edge, kicked a stone with the plated tip of her golden boot. It pelted the trunk of a nearby tree, disturbing a big rabbit grazing by its roots. She swore it glared at her before bolting off, its white, fluffy tail disappearing into the underbrush. She winced as the forest tensed around her. “Sorry,” she said, and a warm breeze whipped her pale-golden hair around her face. The forest spirits were admonishing her. “I’m sorry, alright? I won’t do it again,” she growled. The growl turned into the slightest of whines as she walked up to the tree trunk she’d pelted and leaned her forehead against it. “Take the best shot in the rangers and give her courier duty. _Hmph._ ” Her eyes, glowing silver-blue in the deepening shadow of the woods, glanced askance, her forehead still pressed to the trunk. Her rabbit friend had returned and was regarding her with pity, standing upright on its big hind feet.

“Your sympathy is unwanted, rabbit. A ranger accepts her disciplines chin up, ears straight,” she said, and the fawn-colored bunny licked its paws and groomed its fluffy cheeks. As frustrated as Sylvanas was, it was… cute. She pursed her lips and sighed. “Alright, alright, I’ll calm down, okay?”

Like a handful of Windrunners before her, she’d always had this strong, innate connection to the ebbs and flows of the forest and its inhabitants. Her mother Lireesa loved to recount the day of her birth, two fortnights too early, while Lireesa was on her final patrol in Eversong. Sylvanas was born in the forest, and as her mother liked to say, born _of_ the forest, and she spent her first night of life snuggled in her mother’s cloak, cooing up at the branches and lulled to sleep by nightingales. _Sylvanas_. The forest was her namesake and her favorite place to be.

But, she thought with a smirk, it was like having _two_ admonishing mothers. After all, it was the Ranger-General herself who gave her this _honorable_ duty, with the private explanation--over dinner with her sisters the previous evening--that Sylvanas needed to learn patience and respect for old quel’dorei traditions.

 _Even traditions,_ Sylvanas bristled, _that are inefficient, flawed, and wasteful!_ It would be so easy to improve upon the basic tenets of _tradition_ if anyone, _anyone_ would be open to modernizing, to change!

And why shouldn’t she speak up? She loved Quel’Thalas with her whole being. She wanted what was best for her brothers and sisters. She knew how to make their armies stronger, knew how to incorporate new strategies and tactics from the other races in the Lordaeron Alliance, and by the Sunwell, she even learned a new fletching technique from a dwarf that made twice the arrows in half the time! But would anyone listen? Bah!

 _“When you’re Ranger-General,”_ her mother had said evenly, sipping on a dark Silvermoon wine, _“you can place these ideas of yours before a vote. Until then, respect your rank. More importantly, respect_ mine _.”_

 _“Yes, Minn’da,”_ Sylvanas had said, in a petulant way that made little Vereesa snicker and had them both dismissed--but not before her mother had handed her a field report and orders to head to Lordaeron on the morrow.

 _“Do not rush your return,”_ Lireesa had said. “ _Meditate on what I’ve said. Leave Gibi and walk the coast.”_

Gibi, her childhood hawkstrider, was unwillingly left behind. Sylvanas loved Gibi and Gibi loved Sylvanas and frankly, walking through the farmland pass to Lordaeron after the coast was, well, unstimulating in the kindest respect. At least her hawkstrider would be faster and good company.

And, frankly, she wasn’t really doing much meditating. More complaining, really.

She could camp for the night and _meditate_ , she supposed, on her responsibilities as future Ranger-General. At the very least, she knew she wouldn’t turn down the duty like her elder sister. She was too loyal to her family and her people for that, she thought with equal parts frustration and sadness. She missed Alleria. But even with her sharp wit and sharper tongue, the people of Quel’Thalas found Sylvanas dependable and inspiring, at least as much as Alleria, easily the most beloved of their kin.

Without Gibi to feed and water, there was no real need to make a proper camp. Sylvanas eyed up the surrounding trees and, finding a suitable bough high off the forest floor, she leapt up with the innate athletic grace of a high elf. She grabbed a branch, scampered easily up the trunk, and with a pounce, landed like a lynx on her chosen limb.

Thick enough to sleep on, the limb would be a decent resting spot. A hollowed knot where the limb met the trunk was the perfect size for her pack and weapons, and should it rain, she could curl into it herself. She smirked happily; there was always something invigorating about sleeping under the stars on a tree branch. Perhaps this duty wouldn’t be the worst, after all. She removed her quiver, cinched it, and tucked it into what was once a critter’s little home, followed by her bow, but she kept her short sword closer and her dagger on her person. Even in this dull farmland, best to be prepared. Bandits were common and you could never guess when trolls might come scouting down the coast.

She slunk her back against the trunk and stretched her legs in front of her. Procuring a whetstone from her pack, she set about sharpening the dagger, admiring the gold ornamental design on its dark green handle as she slid the stone along its blade. Not every ranger focused on honing their close quarter weapons and skills, but Sylvanas quite enjoyed training for hand-to-hand combat, even when a solid thwack with her heavy bow would likely prove to be an effective defense. Then again, much like her sister Alleria, she was built more solidly than many of her ilk, taller than average and more muscular in the arms and legs. When she was younger, she’d been self-conscious of the way her arms were cut compared to her peers, especially during festive occasions requiring dresses and the like, opting for longer sleeves and cloaks, but with age and battle prowess that anxiety had faded. She was, after all, Silvermoon’s military--not a mage or a scholar or a lady-in-waiting. It did her no good to be slender and delicate when she could be solid and fierce. She gripped the handle of the dagger tightly, then tossed it a few feet into the air, snatching it effortlessly after a few flips.

Scanning her surrounds and verifying nothing of threat, she sheathed the dagger and allowed herself a yawn. It was early in the night, but she planned for an early morning--and boredom had left her feeling sleepy. A few hours under the budding starlight and she’d be ready to deliver the Ranger-General’s report to the human city and be done with this drudgery. She pulled the edge of her hood over her eyes, crossed her arms over her chestpiece, and began to doze.

\---

  
“Aye, Boulder! Scrimpet! Dinner, boys!” Nathanos Marris called out into the fields. His two mottle-coated hounds were tackling each other in the sunset as they made toward their master’s voice. Boulder and Scrimpet were brothers but didn’t look much alike, Boulder on the smaller side and Scrimpet with a wiry terrier’s coat. They were, much like their master, eccentric dogs, rejected from the royal training academy because of their _keen_ _fixation_ on surrounding prey. In other words, they had no patience for guard duty. At the very least, it made them excellent hunting hounds, befitting an excellent hunter.

Nathanos let the dogs run inside the small farmhouse on Marris Stead. They made a beeline for their hot food near the roaring hearth, their claws click-clacking eagerly on the stone floor. He loved nights like this--cool, clear sunsets, chilly nights. If it weren’t for the recent string of burglaries in the area, he’d make his evening patrol into more of a leisurely sunset stroll, but alas… he had duties to attend to and thieves to track.

Stifling a yawn, he scratched his auburn beard with dusty hands. It’d been a long day of prepping the fields for the upcoming winter and harvesting the autumn crops. He’d employed his young cousin for the better half of the day, but the boy had been called home after lunch, leaving Nathanos by himself in the fields. It was lonely work. He spoke to his dogs a lot. They listened, but rarely answered.

He chuckled as Scrimpet stole a choice piece of duck from Boulder’s bowl as Boulder scratched his hind. A small tussle ensued but petered out just as quickly.

“Alright, boys. Behave. I’ll be back,” Nathanos said, grabbing his bow and quiver from their perch near his front door. He fastened the quiver and tested the bow’s weight in his right arm, rolled out his neck, and headed for the woodland path.

As expected, all was quiet, save a nightingale or two. A few deer settling in for the night and a fox chasing a field mouse rustled the underbrush, but the only other sound he could hear was the gentle night breeze through the trees. After he’d scouted a half-mile radius around his homestead, Nathanos let himself whistle a little tune.

Just in case.

It was a tactic he’d only use against burglars or adversaries of similarly minor threat. Startling a forest troll and giving away his presence wasn’t his preferred battle strategy. But against a thief, usually armed with nothing more than a dull dagger or a slingshot--well, a whistle could spook ‘em just enough to track their location. Easy.

His whistle increased in volume, then faded away. Nothing. Although…

Did it seem even _more_ quiet now?

It was an instinct he prided himself upon--to listen not only for sounds, but for the lack of them. And right now, there was certainly a dearth of sound.

Carefully, he slid an arrow from his quiver. He scanned the grounds. Nothing. Then the quickest of movements in the upper branches of a nearby tree caught his attention. Two round eyes peered at him, reflecting moonlight.

A raccoon.

He let out a breath.

Just as quickly, he nocked his arrow again, for something spooked the raccoon and based on its gaze, that something--that someone--was just beyond his shoulder, behind him. With a tight turn on the tip of his boot, he focused on a human shape in the branches, took aim, and let loose his arrow. It hit.  The shadow staggered, slipped from the branch, and in an instant Nathanos had grabbed a rock and pelted it at the bandit’s head.

“Got you, thief!” he called, bounding toward the crumpled figure. “No goats for you toni--”

 _Oh shit_.

This wasn’t a _bandit_.

Elegant, golden armor... giant, pointy ears... those weird, whiskery eyebrows…

This was an elf ranger from Quel’Thalas.

“You… you _shot_ me,” the elf said in deeply accented Common. Was she angry? Or was she shocked? He could never tell with that lilting accent. She was on her knees, her glowing blue eyes blinking in the darkness, wildly unfocused. _Well, yes, Nathanos, you chucked a rock at her head!_ She was armed with an impressive short sword and looked like she _very_ much wanted to use it, but after scrambling to her feet she didn’t make it very far, keening sideways and tripping. Just before she passed out, Nathanos braced her with an outstretched arm. Her head lolled onto his chest, her hood shifting to reveal just where he’d nailed her with that rock. It was swelling by the second.

“Shit,” he growled in panic and adjusted the impressive heft of the elf to better support her dead weight. “I don’t… this… this was not an act of war a-against Quel’Thalas, okay? I thought… I thought you were a thief and--” He looked down at her closed eyes and the arrow-- _his arrow--_ buried in her left shoulder, blossoming with blood. “And you can’t hear me. Okay. Let’s… okay.” He looked around, ascertaining she was definitely alone. “Gotta fix this. Okay.”

And so he began his half-mile trek back to Marris Stead, a wounded high elf ranger slumped over his shoulders, looking--and feeling--very much like a bad, bad person.

\---

Sylvanas stirred to the feeling of something warm and wet and annoyingly persistent on her hand. What… what sort of creature…

Her eyes opened, bleary and heavy, to spot a mangy hound licking her fingers. “Off, you!” she demanded, but her voice was pathetic and the little effort it took made her head pound and her stomach turn.

“Hey, Scrimpet! Go lie down, boy,” a man’s deep voice called out in Common. Her eyes screwed shut against the onslaught of pain and nausea, but she could hear that man moving closer and the dog whining as he went away. She could tell she was on a bed, a rough bed, and could smell a woodfire from a hearth. She tried to open her eyes again but only managed a wince. From the slit of vision she had beneath her eyelashes, she could see a human. Bearded. Large. His face seemed horrified and apologetic. This was _definitely_ the man who shot her.

“I am so sorry, my lady,” he said immediately, coming to kneel before the bed. “Before you alert your people, please understand me--this was purely accidental.” He gestured to her shoulder. She glanced down at her arm, wrapped tightly in linen bandages. At some point he’d removed her pauldrons, although--and lucky for him--the rest of her armor remained in place. Acknowledging the wound made her aware of the thrumming pain shooting through her arm and she groaned.

“I don’t know any healing magic, or-or any magic at all, really, nor are there any healers nearby, but I might have a tea or two, some herb tinctures--” he prattled on, his little human eyebrows knitted together in concern. She stopped listening to his rough common to observe his face. It was a kind face, free of the haughtiness she’d come to associate with high elf men who _knew_ they were attractive and knew _you_ knew it, too. Whether or not other humans would like this human’s face was not for Sylvanas to know, but she rather liked it. His skin was tan, like he spent a lot of time outdoors, and his forehead crinkled as he fretted over the bruise on her temple, and his nose had a sizable bump like it’d been broken one too many times. His round, little human ears were unadorned and his brown hair was scruffy and unkempt, like he hadn’t had a moment’s rest since he’d presumably carried her back from the woods to his home.

“You shot me,” she said, cutting into his worrying. It was the only thing she’d said to him before apparently losing consciousness, and she said it to him again.

His mouth hung agape, soundlessly. He blinked a few times and then said, “Y-yes. I did. I’m sorry.”

“That is a hard feat, human,” Sylvanas said slowly, reaching up to gingerly press fingers to her temple. “I am not easy to track.”

“I’m a good tracker,” the man said, although it was more a statement of fact than a boast, and she liked that.

“Perhaps I was careless, or perhaps you are skilled,” she said, attempting to pull herself upright in the bed. The light linen blanket covering her to her chest slipped to pool around her hips. Why he blanketed her when she was in full armor was a mystery to her. Humans were odd creatures.

“No, stay down, please,” the man said, lightly touching her good shoulder. “I really knocked you out cold and you’re in no shape to travel right now.”

He was right. Just the small movement she’d managed sent the room spinning and, a credit to this human for his quick thinking, he’d whipped a wooden bucket right under her chin right before she heaved last night’s supper from her roiling stomach. Cold sweat sprung from her skin and she shivered, trying not to gag again as she wiped the back of her hand on the corner of her mouth.

“Sorry,” she said as he pulled the bucket away and placed it by the door.

“Don’t be. I’m the one who bashed your skull with a rock,” he said, entirely unfazed by her… unsavory episode. He crossed to what appeared to be his cooking surface and poured water onto a linen cloth. He returned and passed it to her. She nodded her thanks and wiped down her face. The coolness put her at ease.

“Who taught you?” she asked, looking to the bow and quiver leaning on the near wall as she neatly folded the damp cloth and placed it on the bedside table.

“Huh? Oh, that. I mostly taught myself,” the human admitted. “I needed a quiet way to defend our herds. A humane way, too.”

 “You’re very good. That arrow had a lot of power behind it, even for a poorly made bow,” Sylvanas said. “I’d like to see more of what you can do.”

“Poorly made?” the human scoffed. “Well, yes, it’s wood and not the king’s gold, but it’s sturdy and balanced… uh, balanced enough.”

“Could I see it?” Sylvanas asked. He shrugged and procured the bow for her. Against his warnings, she sat up again and placed the bow in her lap, slipping her dagger from her thigh. She held the bow out at an angle and squinted. It was certainly better than a training bow, but its grip wasn’t shaped for a hand, even a human’s. “Give me your hand,” she said. He hesitated, looking terribly confused if not scared.

“Look, I’m sorry I shot you but please don’t cut me,” he said warily, eyes on her dagger.

“What?” Sylvanas asked, then glanced at the blade in her hand. “Oh. Of course not. Here, come.”

He was cautious, but he did as she asked. His hand was wonderfully calloused, a boon these hardy creatures had on the elves. It had taken her years and thousands of bleeding blisters and leather wraps to get to a place where she could comfortably grip a bow for weeks’ journeys without rawness. She admired his palm openly, gently tracing the roughness as she mentally measured his finger span.

He cleared his throat. When she looked up, his imperfect nose and cheeks were pink.

“Your grip isn’t suited to your hand,” she said. “One moment.” And she braced his bow on the inside of her knee, masterfully whittling soft grooves into the once-squared surface of the grip. She blew the wood dust away one, twice, and then passed his bow back.

“You’ll need to smooth it with pumice, but try it,” she said.

“That’s… yeah, that’s really nice,” he said gruffly, testing the grip, flexing his fingers on and off the wood. He looked at her like she was a mythical creature. “How did you do that so quickly?”

“Years of practice,” Sylvanas said simply. The human made an interesting face. From the humans she’d known through her military service, she already knew _exactly_ what that face meant. “Ah-ah. You don’t need to know that.”

The man smirked. _Oh_. As much as her body hurt and her head spun, she couldn’t help but return it. She rolled her eyes, wincing a bit, but still smiled. “I am neither old nor young but if you _must_ know,” she sighed dramatically, “I’m certainly not a matriarch and not quite a maiden.”

“I’m… not sure what that means,” the man admitted, busying himself with the bow once more.

She watched the way he tested the tautness of the string and mimicked a draw, tucking his cheek to his hand in a in a way that made red-brown hair tumble over his eyes. “It means,” she continued playfully, eagerly anticipating the delicious embarrassment soon to be in those eyes, “I am marriageable.”

The man coughed, his eyes wide and cheeks reddening once more. “I--I’m sorry,” he stuttered, “maybe it’s your accent, but did you say…? Because that’s not--I didn’t--”

“Oh? Not your type, am I?” she pressed a little more.

He sputtered. “What? No--I mean, yes. You’re--you’re stunning, my lady, I just…” He composed himself with a thick clearing of his throat and a sniff. “You must be incapacitated and surely do not mean to speak so... freely.”

“I always speak freely,” Sylvanas said. “But I jest, of course.”

“Oh,” the man said. Did he look… disappointed? The thought of it made something flutter, but the fluttering set off another sick roiling of her stomach and she groaned. She slipped her pale blonde hair behind her ear to press gingerly at her swollen brow. The man, she noticed, winced apologetically.

“The bumbling human who shot and bludgeoned you would be a terrible suitor, for what it’s worth,” the man admitted. “Your kind already finds us clumsy as it is.”

“Clumsy? Perhaps my Common is unpracticed but I wouldn’t call tracking and felling a Farstrider ‘clumsy.’ But however lethal, you seem trustworthy all the same,” Sylvanas said, leaning back on the thin pillow until the room stopped spinning. “Otherwise I would be halfway to Lordaeron by now.”

“In your state?” the man asked, pulling another pillow from the edge of the bed to prop under her shoulder. The wound had bled through the linen bandages, a deep red-purple stain on the coarse tan fabric.

“My state?” Sylvanas scoffed. “I’ve suffered worse injuries and yet dragged my sorry corpse to training at dawn.”

“Puking your guts out all the way?”

“Ha-ha,” Sylvanas intoned, unable to bely the sheen on her forehead. She sighed and threw her good arm over her eyes. “But yes, even so. Blame heady dwarven ale and the stupidity of youth. Thusly I’m only indulging this because you’re charming and I’m in no rush.”

His eyes brightened and lips quirked at the word _charming_ , but he recovered quickly to match her wit. “So you’re saying I don’t need to babysit a vomiting elf all night? he teased, dragging the bucket closer for good measure. “It’s all yours if I don’t have to clean it.”

Sylvanas threw him a glare under her forearm. “Consider it your penance to the nation of Quel’Thalas.” She uncovered her face and flung out that forearm for an official greeting at last. “Sylvanas Windrunner,” she said. He clasped her forearm and she clasped his, marveling the way her hand felt small and delicate on the muscles below his elbow.

“Ah. A Windrunner. I couldn’t have picked off a peasant elf?”

“No such thing, farm boy,” she said, enjoying how the banter left their arms clasped tight between them. He barked a little laugh, nodding his assent.

“I suppose that’s true. Nathanos Marris,” he said at last.

“Bal’a dash, Nathanos. And thank you.” She quirked half a smile as she released his arm. She leaned back into bed and covered her face once more. “Now allow me to take advantage of your hospitality until my ‘state’ improves.”

“On the morrow, Lady Windrunner. I’ll take my leave.”

\---

 

From his resting room chair with Boulder snoring on his lap and Scrimpet at his feet, Nathanos could keep a side eye on his injured guest but still afford her some modicum of privacy. It didn’t feel right to sleep and he also didn’t want her running off in the middle of the night. If he learned anything from his mother, a healer by trade (Light rest her soul), it was that “a blow to the head and can’t keep ‘em fed, might end up dead.” With a human, he’d check the blacks of their eyes to see if they matched, but Sylvanas had those glowy high elf eyes and… did they even _have_ pupils? He’d make a note to check in the morning, for curiosity’s sake. But given she’d already been up twice to heave whatever was left in her into that definitely-retired milk bucket, she was not faring well.

“Why don’t these damn elves wear helmets, huh?” he said to Boulder, massaging his floppy ears. “Huh, boy?”

She answered from the other room. A small clatter and her strained voice caused three heads--one man and two dogs--to perk up in attention.  “‘Cause we don’t get close--” Cough. Groan. “Don’t get close enough to need’m. S’just going… going to block the view…” Another unproductive gag and a... whimper?

Scrimpet whined back in solidarity and trotted over to Sylvanas where she huddled on the floor near the bucket. Nathanos followed and his face twisted in pity. Scrimpet busied himself licking Sylvanas’s cheek and she did nothing to stop him, busy as she was trying to free herself from her armor with one hand. Horribly mumbled Thalassian curses, or so Nathanos assumed, tumbled from her slow tongue.

“Easy,” Nathanos soothed and grabbed a candlestick from the food counter. He lit it in the low-burning fire and set it on the floor next to Sylvanas. He whistled at Scrimpet and the hound relented his onslaught of slobber to sit obediently at his side. “You don’t look good, my lady.” He helped her unbuckle her cuirass and tossed into onto the bed where she’d left her sabatons and gauntlets, followed by her leather plackart. At last she was left in her hooded cloak, a dyed-blue leather tunic, hide arm wraps, and chainmail chausses over linen leggings. It was no wonder she’d been so heavy in the forest.

He tried to ignore any other feelings while undressing her, considering her condition--which was, he noted uneasily, a lot worse than earlier. Free of the plated armor, she slumped against the side of the bed frame and a small, pained sound eeked out of her. Taking a chance, he lifted the candle in its holder to her face. She focused on him blearily but didn’t say anything. Squinting, he looked at her eyes. They were dimmer now, likely from her lack of energy, and he could just make out a disc in their center, barely contrasting with the silver-blue glow engulfing the rest of her eyes, and an ever-so-slightly grayer circle therewithin.

Huh. So they _did_ have pupils.

As expected, the right one was blown wide and didn’t match its smaller partner. Nathanos felt a pang of guilt. It wasn’t just a bump on the head; he’d damn well concussed the elf. Her eyelids were slipping closed. “Ah-ah, no, look at me,” he said loudly.

“Hm?” Sylvanas said, shaking her head awake and regretting it with a groan. “Did-did you know y-you have dirt behind your ear?” she slurred. She reached out a hand and rubbed behind his ear. She traced the outline of the shell of his ear and he tried to ignore how it burned. “Your ear’so’ittle, how?”

“We’re going to a healer,” Nathanos decided, gently waving her hand away. He slipped his arm under her knees and, bracing her back and careful of her arrow wound, lifted her onto the bed. “Closest is Lordaeron, up we go.”

“No, m’fine,” Sylvanas said, trying to focus harder and speak more clearly. “No--let the kingdoms know a lil’ eared _human_ got me? Can’t let them think that.” Her head lolled forward onto Nathanos’ shoulder. “My head hurts.”

“I’m sure it does,” he said, pulling up the hood of her cloak. He couldn’t quite figure out how to get her pointy ears through the slits in the fabric and after much of Nathanos’ fussing, she weakly reached up and did it herself. She didn’t have the energy to resist and he took her efforts to hood herself as unspoken agreement. After shouldering his quiver and bow, he blew out the candle, hoisted her up, and braced her every step toward the door, his two dogs in tow.


	2. Out of Rank

 

The sun was well above the horizon by the time Nathanos and the occasionally belligerent but mostly unintelligible elf ranger made it to the city gates, the dogs tottling dutifully behind his horse.

“Aye, Marris!” one of the guards called out, his voice muffled and metallic behind the faceguard of his helm. Boulder and Scrimpet ran up to him, tails wagging. He patted them both in turn. “I don’t see a cart of fresh sweet corn like ye promised! Oh, Light, is that--?”

“In a hurry, Broley. Corn next week. Found an injured Farstrider by the farm,” he lied, stabilizing Sylvanas’s wobbly upper body.

“No kidding, mate--that there’s an elf!” the guard Broley said, lifting his faceguard to peer at the foreigner. “Yeesh. Cut through the barracks, tell ‘em I said so. Apothecarium’s just beyond the hedge, I’m sure there’s some healer in there gatherin’ supplies. If not, go to the cathedral.”

“Thanks,” Nathanos said, tugging his horse’s reins and whistling to his dogs. The quick turn made Sylvanas slump and keen; he trapped her good shoulder under his chin to keep her steady. It occurred to him that he was practically cuddling her. He hoped she didn’t mind. It was for _safety_. It also occurred to him that, despite the dried blood and hours of vomiting, she smelled very nice and her hair was very soft where it tumbled out of her hood.

_Damn it, Nathanos. A pretty elf is pretty, so what?_

He cleared his throat and tried to ignore the heat on his cheeks, so thankful the Lady Windrunner was down for the count.

He made it to the apothecarium in record time, pleased to see that dawn was peak hours for the healers; the shop was bustling. Before he could even tie his horse, the ranger’s arm looped over his shoulder, he was approached by a small woman with a short brown bob, wearing soft blue priest’s robes. Her arms were full of her day’s purchases--salves, bandages, empty potion bottles--but she placed her parcel delicately on the stone bench next to her when she spotted Nathanos and his wounded companion.

“By the Light,” she said quietly, ducking to peek under Sylvanas’s hood. “By the Light!” she repeated when she saw the elf’s head trauma, the dark purples and blacks smudging her skin from her temple to under her eye. “A ranger from Quel’thalas?” she asked, bracing the elf while Nathanos secured his mount.

“Found her on the outskirts of my farmstead. Mistook her for a thief.” He couldn’t lie to a priest of the Light. His mother would flay him from the grave. “You can see how that played out. Can you heal her?”

“I can and I will,” she said confidently, lifting part of Sylvanas’s cloak to reveal her bandaged shoulder. A gasp. “You _shot_ her?”

“Shh!” he snapped, then placated her with beseeching palms. “Sorry, my lady, but please, it was all a misunderstanding and she knows it, too. I tried to care for her myself when she was conscious and conversational and she knows it was an accident. No need to start a war.”  

The priest looked doubtful. “You would shoot a thief?”

“They were stealing my goats,” he said simply. She glared. He rolled his eyes. “Look, if I wanted to shoot to kill, I could. I didn’t and I don’t. Now please, can we get her somewhere?”

The priest squinted her eyes. “There’s a small inn connected to the apothecarium. Hide her ears--we don’t need the extra attention.”

At that moment, Sylvanas stirred. Seemingly forgetting where she was and where she’d been, she saw the man supporting her and the woman guiding her and immediately brandished her dagger. “Unhand me now, humans!” she barked, although to say she looked less than threatening, pale and bruised and lilting forward like a kobold, would be a kind assessment.

“Not sure that would be advisable, Lady Windrunner,” Nathanos said as he lowered her weapon hand, the name drawing further ire from the priest. “Unless you’d prefer to launch your assault from a crumpled heap in the dirt?”

“I--what?” Sylvanas squinted at Nathanos and a slow recognition dawned. A penitent look crossed her face, followed by the now-familiar pallor of nausea. Luckily for Nathanos, she had nothing in her but a subdued hiccup. “I need healing,” she said behind her hand.

“Right here, my lady,” the priest said, glaring at Nathanos. “On behalf of Lordaeron, a thousand apologies for this bumbling idiot, Lady Windrunner. Do you know this man? Was it truly an accident?”

“I know him as of last night, when he shot me,” Sylvanas said weakly but with humor in her drooping eyes. “He says it was and I believe him.” And Nathanos smiled an arrogant smile under his mustache, lifting an eyebrow at the priest.

“See?” he said. “ _Accident_.”

“Alright,” the priest said, exasperated, “but for our country’s sake I do hope you won’t make a habit of attacking Quel’dorei nobility.”

“I’d like to see him try,” Sylvanas said with a devious, loopy grin and Nathanos couldn’t help but think she meant it. For the life of him he couldn’t fathom why.

 

X

 

When Sylvanas came to for what felt like the twentieth time that morning, she was in a clean room in an inn, propped upright in a much more comfortable bed than the one at the farm. It appeared that the priest had lost the fight to keep Nathanos’ dogs off the bed; they curled alongside Sylvanas, the small one nestled between her knees and the curly one stretched against her side. She could just see the outline of buildings from the window. _Lordaeron at last._ And to think, her mother would assume she was out in the forests meditating. However would she explain the day’s events to her mother? Sorry, Ranger-General, I was felled by a human farmer east of the city and spent the night in his bed. The words, while technically accurate, sounded far more romantic than the truth.

Unwrapped, her arrow wound was beginning to ooze with infection and the priest was appalled they had waited so long. As the priest dabbed and cleaned it, infusing it with Light, Sylvanas smirked and said simply, “We were too busy enjoying each other’s company, right, Sir Marris?”

Nathanos had coughed and looked away, but then fixed her with a gaze so confused it bordered on adorable. He was far too easy to tease. She took unusually great pleasure from it.

Still, as she lay receiving the soothing healing magic from the priest, he stood awkwardly aside, his big, rough hands clasped in front of him, peering out the window. Perhaps teasing the human wasn’t the best thing to do right now.

“Nathanos,” Sylvanas said softly, peering around the outstretched hand of the healer. He looked around to her, something sad in his hazel eyes. “Do not feel guilty. All of this has been far more exciting than originally intended.”

He nodded stoically. “Regardless, I am sorry I’ve interrupted your mission and injured you.” His brow furrowed. “Pardon my curiosity, but why were you out there, anyway? Do trolls encroach on my land?”

“Ha! I wish,” Sylvanas said. “Not--not that I wish a troll attack on you. In truth, my mother is Ranger-General. I’m here to deliver her missives and was merely passing through.”

“Huh. I’d assumed you were above such--”

“Above such grunt duty? I am. But I spoke out of rank and my mother decided I needed time to _think on my actions_.”

“You? Speak out of rank? Why, I can’t even imagine it!” Nathanos joked.

“Ah, yes, but you’ve barely met me,” Sylvanas said, a twinkle in her eye. “Perhaps you might do me the favor of couriering the letter to the keep in my stead. It is not far from here.”

“Not far at all,” he agreed. “I’d be happy to.”

Sylvanas reached for the satchel belted to her other leg, adjacent to her dagger sheath, and procured a small, indigo-dyed and leather-bound parcel embossed with the golden seal of Silvermoon. “I trust you know this is confidential information,” she said seriously, passing the missive to Nathanos.

Nathanos took it but hesitated. “Then why entrust it to a human you’ve only just met?”

“Because I sense, Nathanos, that you are a good man,” she said, shifting slightly as the healer moved to her shoulder. She winced as the magic began knitting the fibers of her skin back together and sighed. “I also sense that you need something to do to make up for your blunders. I have no desire to make small talk with your human leaders, so with this favor, consider us even.”

“A strange equivalency,” Nathanos said.  

“I assure you, I’d gladly take an arrow again to avoid such false pleasantries and ‘how’s the weather in Quel’thalas?’” Sylvanas said with a groan. “While I take pride in our alliance, I am a soldier, not a politician. The very thought makes me squirm.”

“Understood,” Nathanos grunted. A playful smirk danced across his lips. Sylvanas noticed with a strange feeling that those lips looked very soft for a human who was otherwise so very hardy. “So,” he said smartly, “how _is_ the weather in Quel’thalas?”

Even the healer chuckled as Sylvanas searched for something to throw at his face and grabbed a linen cloth from the bedside table. It hit him square in the chest with the quietest _thap,_ and the movement grabbed the smaller dog’s attention. The dog leapt from the bed, grabbed the linen, jumped back into the bed, and proudly deposited it on Sylvanas’s lap. “Well, aren’t you a good boy?” Sylvanas said, scritching the dog’s ears. A happy tongue lolled out of his mouth as he panted. “Well, Nathanos, should the weather interest you so, I suppose you’ll have to visit sometime.”

Nathanos looked at her with that strange expression again. “Is… that an invitation?”

“Do you want it to be?” she asked coyly.

Below his beard, she could see the lump in his throat bounce as he swallowed. “I, ah, I’m going to go deliver this now. I’ll back back soon,” he said quickly. He was about to call the dogs to his side when he stopped. “Should I not return and you find I’ve used this confidential information to usurp the throne in Silvermoon, I’ll leave the dogs as collateral. They seem to be growing quite fond of you.”

“That, or fond of the cozy bed,” she replied and pet the big dog sprawled along her side. “I will be sure to use them as hostages should you betray the trust of Quel’thalas.”

“Noted,” he said and turned on his heel to leave the room. When Nathanos’ footsteps disappeared down the stairs, the priest sighed and looked up at Sylvanas.

“He _is_ a good man, you know,” she said with a pointed look as she finished up her work and respooled a length of unused bandaging. “I knew his mother. You’ll find no human lineage more loyal and strong than the Marrises. Though I do wish he wouldn’t shoot at trespassers with that damn bow. The poor vagrants!”

At first, Sylvanas was taken aback by the priest’s obvious assumptions and wanted to sputter and gape and deny any respectable high elf’s interest in a lowly, scruffy human--her own sister notwithstanding, of course. Yet, her instincts confirmed, she could not stop the soft smile. “Good to know,” she said and hugged an arm around Nathanos’ hound.

 

X

 

The knock-knock-knock of Nathanos’ fist rapping on the solid oak door echoed in the stone vestibule leading to Lordaeron’s keep. A guard opened cautiously; while Nathanos knew most of the patrol guards, he didn’t frequent this side of the city and couldn't tell this man from any other tin-suited meat shield. Perhaps it was his recent assault on an elf, but he felt distinctly uneasy around him. “Our council is currently in session and will not be seeing guests, sir,” the helmet said. “Are you expected?”

Nathanos lifted up the missives, gesturing over the guard’s shoulder. “I, uh, no. I’m here to deliver a message from Silvermoon?”

The guard’s head cocked. “You are not from Silvermoon, nor are you one of our couriers.” The guard touched the parcel warily, then lifted his visor. “Although we are expecting a Farstrider with the Ranger-General’s report. I can see that’s what you have.” He looked wide-eyed and slack-jawed.  

“Indeed,” Nathanos said, trying to hand over the missive. “Could you bring this to--”

“Hold on.” And the guard disappeared behind the door, practically skipping. Nathanos glanced around, an eyebrow raised as he stood alone outside the keep. He whistled a little tune, quickly aborted when the guard rushed back. ”Wait, no, follow me!” he exclaimed. “Come, come, come!”

 _Lady Windrunner wasn’t kidding. These folk are strange,_ Nathanos thought with a grimace, stepping up into the entrance to the keep. He had to take long strides just to catch up with the guard. “Is this really necessary? I just need to get this report to the--”

“The council chambers are right up here on the left. Surely you’d like to deliver them personally. They will be floored to see you!” the guard said, his voice much higher than it was when he’d answered the summons.

“Floored to…? You lot don’t get out much, do you?” Nathanos said, peering at the oil portraits and statues lining this extravagant hallway and doing his best not to trip on the thick, ornamental rug beneath his feet. He felt very underdressed and very unshowered for such a place. He certainly didn’t want to approach the council members themselves, what, with yesterday’s field dirt, splotches of Sylvanas' blood, and a collection of dog fur on his filthy work clothes.

Unfortunately, that’s just what this bizarre guard had in mind. Nathanos froze a few strides behind him as he swung open the double-wide door to the chambers.

“Gentleman, ladies, apologies for the interruption, but the reports from Silvermoon have arrived!” the guard spoke into the room. Nathanos could hear a few annoyed grumbles at the intrusion. “I think you’ll see why I’ve interrupted you, given the council’s current agenda item.” The guard ducked his head back into the hallway and beckoned him with an over-eager come-hither. “C’mon, then!”

Nathanos screwed his brow and looked over his shoulder. “Do I have to?” he asked. “This seems a little excessive a welcome, if you’ll pardon me.” And all at once, the guard was behind him, gripping his shoulders and all but shoving him toward the council chambers.

“This, lords and ladies of the council, is Silvermoon’s courier,” the guard said, beaming. Nathanos glanced over the nine faces openly gawking at him, some in outright disgust and confusion. One women pinched her nose. Dramatic, of course. There was no way she’d smell him at this distance.

“Hi,” he said weakly.

“We were expecting a Farstrider,” a man in a robe with a Lordaeron crest embroidered on its breast said in a slow, nasal drawl. His beard, white and plentiful, was a stark contrast to the shining bald head reflecting the midday sun streaming through the stained glass windows.  

The guard silently gesticulated at Nathanos with all the exuberance in the world. “Indeed! The very same!”

The room fell silent. The implication dawned on Nathanos only as soon as it dawned on the other humans in the room, and by then, there was no stopping the runaway caravan. _Oh, no._

“Exceptional!”

“I’m not--” Nathanos tried, but it was no use. Nine voices clamored excitedly. Wooden chairs scraped against the stone floor as they crowded around him. The guard clapped Nathanos firmly on the back.

“What a grand show of inclusivity, and to be trusted with the Ranger-General’s reports!”

“An historic moment!”

“I’m sorry,” Nathanos tried again, raising his voice, “I’m not a--” But it was drowned again.

“We must send word to Silvermoon at once to thank them for this diplomacy and foresight,” the old man with the impressive beard said, clacking his cane on the ground. “Unprecedented!

“Mage Linora, could you open a portal to the gates of Silvermoon?”

Nathanos heard the request for a portal and his stomach sank. “No, please don’t go to--”

“What’s it like, child? To be the very first, the only, human Farstrider?

“Do they treat you well?”

“Elves, boy, what are they like? Do they sleep? Do they eat?”

“I’ve heard they eat their dead!”

_“Do they groom each other like cats?”_

It was all he could do to toss the reports down on the circular table and sprint from the Keep, never throwing a second glance behind him.

 

X

 

The door to the upper room slammed open, a panting Nathanos breaking in. “We have a problem,” he said breathlessly. Then he noticed the beautiful elf half-asleep with his snoring hounds and only wished he had more time to appreciate the scene. _Maybe it won’t be the last time I have the chance--_ the thought was instantaneous and confusing. He dismissed it as he marched up to her side, nudging her awake.

Sylvanas sat up carefully. “Hello to you too, Nathanos. And why’s that?” Why didn’t she sound more concerned? Why didn’t she even sound surprised?

“They think I am a Farstrider, the Lordaeron council, and they’ve reached out to Silvermoon to celebrate,” he said in a breath. “I didn’t know how to stop them. It all happened so fast--”

“They think you’re a _what_?” And Sylvanas broke out in laughter. “Oh, gods! You’re a rascal, aren’t you, Nathanos? Do you realize the incident you’ve just caused?” The grin was far too wide on her face. If he wasn’t in such a panic, he’d have adored the sight of her glee-crinkled eyes and those strange, slightly terrifying fangs.

“The incident I caused? You gave me the report!” he exclaimed, rounding the side of the bed and glancing out the window as he combed nervous fingers through his hair. “And why are you laughing? How is this _funny_?”

“Oh, it’s _golden._  Of course it will land me in all sorts of trouble with the Ranger-General, but it is a price I am willing to pay to see this play out.” She pulled the sheets and swung her elegant feet over the side of the bed. Already she was looking much better, the injury to her head all but gone, the arrow wound little but a pale patch of knitted skin that would fade on the morrow. And he was glad to hear her words clearly again, even if those words were as confusing to him as ever.

“Sure, I expected some shock that a quel’dorei would ever trust a human courier with their messages,” she said, stretching out her muscles and parsing stray strands of unkempt hair from her face. “I worried, briefly, they might think you’d stolen it and report it to our emissary. But this? I never could’ve predicted something so wonderfully disruptive.”

“You’re insane. Are you sure the priest was done healing your head?”

“Nathanos, _we need disruption._ Silvermoon is stymied by their own fear of outsiders and their ridiculous pride. We will never improve as an army, as a nation, if something, someone, doesn’t convince them they’re being complete--what’s that delightful Common word?” She made a clicking sound with her tongue, then snapped her fingers. “Ah, _assholes_. Complete assholes. I’m sorry you’re the bait.”

“No, you’re not,” he said dryly.

“No, I’m not,” she agreed, a devious smirk on her face. “Now, you said they portaled to Silvermoon? The council?”

“That’s what I heard before I ran out of there like a burning murloc,” he said. “I couldn’t have stopped them if I tried.”

“That will truly irk Prince Kael’thas,” Sylvanas said, testing her balance on her feet. Finding it satisfactory, she walked over to the window to stand beside him. “We tend to dislike unannounced visitors, particularly of the human variety.”

“Yeah, well, the humans had some pretty terrible things to say about your kind, too,” Nathanos said, remembering the rapid questions they fired at him. “They think you eat your dead and lick each other’s ears. What the hell kind of alliance is this, anyway?”

“A paper thin alliance, Nathanos,” Sylvanas said, suddenly serious. “Now you understand. It could be so much more. We could bolster each other. Learn from each other. But the closed minded hatred for the smallest of differences is unbelievable. My own sister married a human and the village might as well have thought she had contracted leprosy.”

Something weird but not altogether unpleasant bubbled in Nathanos’ stomach. Her sister married a human? An elf married a human? That… was an _option_? He shook his head, trying to tune back into Sylvanas’ tirade, only to be completely blindsided by the beautiful intensity in her glowy elfy eyes. He tried to piece the parts he missed to no avail.

“...and even you show greater promise with a bow than full generations of recent Farstriders, to track and fell a Windrunner. Them mistaking you for one is no insult at all, really.” She took a deep breath. “But perhaps you ought to return to your farmstead before you become unwitting collateral. The rest of this scheme is mine to muddy, as I’d hate for you to take the blame.”

“Tit for tat,” Nathanos said, shrugging. “It’s only fair I catch a stray arrow this time.”

“There was nothing stray about that arrow, Nathanos,” Sylvanas said, smiling. She placed a reverent hand on her shoulder and spoke with an air of the theatrical: “I’ll wear this scar proudly.”

Nathanos smiled back at that. “And how about the brain damage?”

“Hush, you,” Sylvanas said, nudging him with her hip. He dwelled on the spot where her hip touched his for a long, long time as their eyes caught. Her lips were quirked in a half smile that he found himself becoming far too fond of and, without even thinking, he reached out to pull a leaf, last night’s tagalong, from her hair. She looked at him questioningly and he lifted up the leaf in response. “Leaf,” he said simply.

She mimicked the action but ruffled his hair instead. “No leaf. Just wanted to.” And she smiled again. “Come, I’ll ride with you. You do have all my armor, after all.” She whistled what he could only guess was a fancy Farstrider call and the dogs followed.

He might as well have been a little dog, too, following at her heels with stupid adoration on his stupid face. _Stupid! Get yourself together, you fool!_

But gods, he’d never met anyone quite like her.

 

X

 

With no reason to rush, Sylvanas and Nathanos walked on foot with the horse and the dogs, chatting and teasing each other in the midday sun. They walked side by side while Boulder and Scrimpet chased and tackled each other on the side of the road, their feet dragging, stretching their walk ever longer.

Sylvanas wasn’t exactly sure what he was on about, having lost the train of conversation when he laughed at his own joke. She assumed the nuances of the punchline were lost in translation from Common, but his laugh was bright and deep and honest, and there was nothing about it that begged her to laugh with him. Not like Prince Kael’thas’ laugh would do, or like that of any other of the number of suitors who’d sought her hand as of late. No, there was no performance to Nathanos, no heraldry. There was just… Nathanos.

And that wasn’t to say he didn’t have his own sort of grace and elegance. As they walked, she marveled at how easily he moved for a human. He was muscular and stocky, as they all tended to be in comparison to the elves, but there was an ease to his gait. He moved like a hunter.

He looked at her expectantly, then, and she realized she was meant to respond. “Sorry, what?” she said, eyebrows raised.

“It’s okay. Nothing important,” Nathanos replied, smirking. “I can see how the view might have distracted you.” And he flipped his hair back and grinned.

“Oh, yes, there is nothing like an oafish human quite in need of a bath to set a lady’s loins alight,” Sylvanas drawled, dusting some dirt from his shoulder and scowling when it wouldn’t come off her hand. She wiped it back on his face and he snorted. “And a shave,” she added.

“A shave?” he gasped, mussing his beard. “How dare you! I’ve been working on this baby for months and I’m finally past the awkward stage.”

“Oh? So this is the final look? The goal’s achieved?” she asked, poking the patchy spots on his cheek.

“Name me any elf with a better beard. I’ll wait,” Nathanos said, pausing and beckoning the horse to do so as well. Sylvanas gave him a deadpan stare. “See? Not one. Because they can’t grow this kind of beard.”

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were trying to prove you’re better than an elf,” Sylvanas said teasingly. “More handsome. More… worthy of my time. Why’s that?”

Nathanos sniffed and looked away, guiding the horse forward once more. “Ah,” he said, seemingly embarrassed. “It’s a human thing. We’re nothing if not painfully insecure.”

“I don’t find you insecure, Nathanos. You seem quite confident to me.”

“Self-deprecating?”

“I’m not entirely sure what that word means, but it doesn’t sound positive.”

“It’s… difficult to explain, and I doubt Thalassian even has an equivalent word,” Nathanos said. He looked thoughtful, tapping a finger on his fuzzy chin. “It’s sort of putting yourself down to make another person laugh or feel more at ease.”

“Ah. Yes, I don’t know any high elves who would engage in that sort of behavior,” Sylvanas said. “That’s not to say we don’t have our own forms of humor. Although, admittedly, I have few companions who can have this sort of, how do you say it--banter?”

He grunted, confirming her word choice. “I’ll admit, your accent’s a little different, but your Common’s great and your conversational skills even better.” He looked over at her, head forward but eyes askance. “I like talking to you, Lady Sylvanas.”

“And I, you,” she said softly. And she did. He amused her and even when she didn’t understand his jokes and slang, she found something soothing in his voice, so rich and deep yet oddly proper and wholly Lordaeronian. But more than anything, she liked how she didn’t have to wonder if this was the real Nathanos or a dramatization for courtship’s sake. She’d enough of that back home.

“So,” Nathanos said, breaking the sweet silence, “this is off the usual patrol route for you, I gather. Your walk of shame, as it were?”

“You are correct,” Sylvanas said, busying herself with a loose thread on her tunic.

“I guess that means you won’t be making a habit of sleeping in my trees with the goat thieves and apple pickers?” he asked, something sad in his voice.

“Unless I get demoted, no, I shall not be,” Sylvanas confirmed. She sighed, knowing where this was going. She could see his farmhouse on a distant hill, creeping ever closer. The afternoon stroll was coming to an end and neither of them wanted it to.

“That’s a shame,” he said and she made a noise in agreement. They fell to silence once more, though this time it was a little more awkward than it had been. It wouldn’t last, though--Nathanos was deep in thought and little by little his sad face turned mischievous.

“Now, say I can interest your royalty in farm fresh human delicacies,” Nathanos said at last. “Fresh corn, orchard apples, the biggest pumpkins in the Eastern Kingdoms.”

“Seems like a hard sell,” Sylvanas admitted, looking out over the miles and miles of crop fields. “We fish. We hunt.”

“And isn’t that just the point? Look, I may be a simple farm boy but I know my farms. I’d imagine the soil in Quel’thalas is sandy, being an ocean-bordered nation. And it’s hot! There are things you simply cannot grow or irrigate. Things that I grow in bulk.”

Sylvanas started to say something, but he was on a roll, and enthusiastically so. She held her tongue and chuckled.

“It can be a new partnership, a new show of alliance and good will between the nations!” He held his arms wide, sweeping them around the vista. “Your prince would have something to serve human emissaries alongside your deer meat and grouper. A new shipment every other week. Rotating menus.”

“Nathanos…” Sylvanas said, twisting one side of her mouth.

“Hear me out! I already have regular customers on the northern border of our territory. It wouldn’t add much time to my trips and it would do you elves good to see a human on your roads every once in a while.”

“It would have to be some really, really good produce,” Sylvanas warned.

“I’m wounded you would think I grow anything less,” he said sorely, then smirked. “There’s a reason everyone in Lordaeron knows my name.”

“And a reason everyone tries to steal your crops?”

“Now you’re learning!” Nathanos said. “Look, I’m not too shy to admit--” Then he cut himself off and cleared his throat. His little human ears grew pinker and pinker.

“Or perhaps you are,” Sylvanas teased, nudging his arm.

He tugged his collar. “Ah, is it… hot out here?”

“No, do go on,” Sylvanas urged.

“I just want to see you again,” he said in a rush but he couldn’t look her in the eye as he marched forward. How could he sound so gruff and so boyish at the same time? She smiled then and grabbed his elbow.

“Hey, look at me,” she said, a sensation like falling roiling in her stomach. He did look at her, his little eyebrows pressed together and up, beseechingly. “You will. And you don’t need to hawk pumpkins on the streets of Silvermoon to do so.”

“No?”

“Unless it is your heart’s desire,” she said. “But I would rather see what you can do with that bow and I happen to know the best archery range on the continent.”

“Is that so?”

“It is so, and in a fortnight I have a holiday from duty. You can meet me at the Thalassian Pass and I'll escort you to our barracks, should you wish to learn what real shooting is.”

“Real shooting--did you forget I shot you?”

“Did you notice I still walk among the living? If it were a true shot I...”

And then her teasing died in her throat as a party of high elves shimmered into view a few fields ahead, emerging from a brilliant violet portal under a huge evergreen tree. Whether Nathanos’ eyes were not as sharp as hers or he simply didn’t notice the rangers, Sylvanas did not know, but he continued on unfazed.

“Hmm, I don’t know,” he teased. “You are looking a little pale…”

“Anar'alash denal,” she cursed, instinctively stepping in front of Nathanos. Somehow she knew it had to do with his blunder in Lordaeron. On cue, Nathanos noticed the rangers, too.

“Oh,” he said simply. “Do I run? This is the incident, isn’t it?”

“I’ll take care of it,” Sylvanas said, but her stomach was in her throat. She was already, as Nathanos put it, on her walk of shame. It would not be easy to talk the Ranger-General down from this one. She took a huge breath and straightened her shoulders. “Just keep walking. We’ve done nothing wrong. Perhaps they merely wonder what is taking me so long.” Hopeful thinking, of course. Her mother wanted--no, _expected_ \--Sylvanas to take her time.

“So they portaled right to my farm?” Nathanos scoffed. “No. They’re out for me.”

Sylvanas was relieved that he didn’t sound mad. But as they walked, one human, one elf, one horse, and two dogs, she felt like the head of a motley crew trudging toward the gallows. From her periphery she watched Nathanos calm his horse and the guilt washed over her.

 _‘You are very, very talented, Sylvanas, and very smart,’_ she remembered her mother saying on the eve of her twenty-second summer. _‘But everything you do has consequences that, as smart as you are, you can’t possibly account for every time. And even if_ you’re _clever enough to get out of the holes you dig, what about your comrades? You will be a great leader, my moon, but you need to see beyond the tip of your arrow. It’s not a weekend hunt anymore. It’s war.’_

And her mother’s face would be the first to greet hers as they approached the treeline to the Marris fields, her silver hair framing her scowling face in sharp asymmetry. Sylvanas held out a hand to stay her caravan--and, hopefully, to stay her mother’s hand.

“Mother,” Sylvanas spoke in Thalassian, the calm in her voice belying her racing heart. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“Ranger-captain,” her mother said stoically, her burning blue eyes scanning her daughter’s companions. Lireesa’s commander voice made Sylvanas’ spine snap straight in attention. “Fancy finding you alongside the human wanted for impersonating a Farstrider and stealing confidential military reports. I suppose there is a story here but it’ll have to wait. In the name of King Anasterian and the city of Silvermoon, this human is under arrest.”

Sylvanas gaped, stammering for a moment. “Belore, mother! Don’t _arrest_ him,” she pleaded. “I _asked_ him to deliver the reports for me.” From the corner of her eye she could see Nathanos’ face drawn in trepidation, wanting to step in but clearly knowing it was not his place. He couldn’t understand a word they were saying, besides.

“Then shall I also arrest _you_ for breaking your sworn Farstrider oath to hold the movements of our military in explicit secrecy?” her mother continued. She gestured to two Farstriders and they moved forward to restrain Nathanos’ wrists in magical bindings. They rid him of his bow and arrow, one Farstrider hooking them easily over a shoulder, thought not gingerly. He looked at Sylvanas with wide eyes but wisely did not resist.

“ _Movements_?” Sylvanas’s head swung back to her mother. “They were ration report templates! Don’t think I didn’t look!” Sylvanas’s voice was now becoming louder and as she approached her mother, her mother scowled down into her face, hints of her fangs visible. She wasn’t Minn’da right now. She was the Ranger-General of Silvermoon and Sylvanas realized far too late that she was way, way out of line.

“ _Enough_ , Farstrider!” Her command brought a lump to Sylvanas’s throat but she didn’t dare back off, even as her mother’s nose was inches from her own. “You reported here as a remedial assignment. I was too soft. Not only is there no remediation to be seen, but you continue to eschew decorum and disrespect your superiors and your oath.”

Muscles below Sylvanas’s jaw twitched as she grinded her teeth together, trying with every ounce of strength she had to keep her mouth shut. She tried to keep her face impassive, too, but couldn’t wipe the scowl from her furrowed eyebrows--a scowl that mirrored her mother’s perfectly.

“You are suspended, ranger-captain,” her mother said.

The words crashed around Sylvanas. Her ears pinned against her head, the force of which jingled the golden leaf pierced into her lobe.

“Suspended?” she repeated, her mouth dry. She exhaled loudly in the semblance of a disbelieving chuckle. “You’re suspending me over food ration paperwork?”

“Good, you can hear. Now try to listen,” her mother said. “Your oath is binding. The people of Quel’thalas are your priority.” She switched to Common, then, glancing over at Nathanos but speaking to Sylvanas. “Next time you decide to toy with delicate alliances borders away from home,” she said, leaning close enough to Sylvanas that Sylvanas had to shrink back, “ _don’t_.”

She wanted to argue. Hell, she always wanted to argue. But, remembering her mother’s words from years before, she thought of the farm boy. “Yes, ma’am,” she said quietly, glancing aside to Nathanos. She’d told him facing her mother’s wrath would be worth it and had it been hers alone to shoulder, it very well might have been. How could she have known her mother would arrest him over a report that amounted to little more than kindling paper?

_...consequences that, as smart as you are, you can’t possibly account for every time…_

To prove her mother right _and_ to be eating her scolding in front of Nathanos was almost too much for her pride to bear.

“What was that?” her mother asked, breaking her reverie.

“Yes, ma’am,” Sylvanas said, louder, and saluted with a stiff fist over her chest, “I will, ma’am.”

Her mother’s expression could burn her on the spot. It took Sylvanas a moment, and then -- “I will _not,_  ma’am,” she corrected herself.

Her mother let out a soft “hmph” and walked away. “Round up the prisoner,” she ordered. “Portal us to Silvermoon. Windrunner, come.”

“I, ah,” Sylvanas started, suddenly stumped for words. _As if everything couldn’t go more topside…_ “I need my armor.”

Lireesa looked over her daughter, as if only just noticing she was in leathers and fresh linens from the healer. “Well, I’m certain you were in uniform when you departed yesterday. Do I want to ask?”

“You don’t,” Sylvanas said. She rolled her eyes, sighing. There was no easy way to go about this, was there? No matter what, misunderstandings would abound. “It’s not what you think. My armor and my bow… they're in his home.” She gestured at Nathanos. Lireesa looked from her daughter to Nathanos and back again, one eyebrow slowly rising. Her nostrils flared and her eyes flashed.

Sheepishly, Nathanos waved one hand from his bindings.

“Anar’alah belore,” Lireesa groaned. “ _Fine_. Be quick.”


	3. Ever Warm, Ever Alive

Before departing for Silvermoon and with the kingdom’s most uncomfortable audience watching her every move like dragonhawks, Sylvanas managed to secure her armor and bow, feed the dogs, stall the horse, and at Nathanos’ request, write a roughly-penned note to his neighbors near Darrowshire. He’d tease her for her Common penmanship if only the Farstriders guarding him would let him near. As it was, her mother not only demanded to relay the message from Nathanos to Sylvanas to write, but also asked to review the note for security clearance. Sylvanas tried to argue, insisting that _‘Dear Father Darrow, please attend to my fields and livestock in my absence. Your kind assistance is appreciated and will be handsomely compensated upon my return’_ was _hardly_ code for anything at all but her mother, toying with Sylvanas’ last thread of patience, was firm: “A suspended officer’s input on security means as little as a civilian’s. Mind your tongue.”

And if Sylvanas had a copper for every time her mother pinned her with searing look of judgement while Sylvanas shuffled in and out of the cabin and secured it for the interim as if she were intimately familiar with it, well…

She’d have a single copper. Because the look of judgment was steadily focused upon her, unwavering.

Sylvanas wanted to speak with Nathanos in private, to apologize, to explain that there was no way her mother could hold him once she knew he’d done nothing wrong, but she wasn’t spared the opportunity. As soon as they portaled to Silvermoon, the Farstriders whisked Nathanos to the internment quarters and Lireesa nudged her daughter’s shoulder toward Farstriders’ Square. The insistent pressure forced her to turn direction and, looking over her shoulder, she frowned at Nathanos’ retreat. He, too, had twisted to catch her gaze, but Lireesa quickly intercepted it, stepping in front of her.

“I am sure you have belongings in the lodge,” she said, her face set in a deep frown as it filled Sylvanas’ view. “I suggest you gather them and return home.”

“Minn’da, let me explain,” Sylvanas attempted. “I was not trying to cause trouble--”

“You rarely try, yet always manage,” Lireesa grumbled. “Go.”

Relenting, Sylvanas shrugged off her peaking aggression as best she could, but as Lireesa traced the Farstriders’ and Nathanos’ path toward the dungeons, Sylvanas’ ears flattened against her head.

If Nathanos wasn’t out by the end of the day, she’d break him out herself.

 

X

 

Nathanos lounged on the bench against the far wall of his cell. As far as jail cells went, this one wasn’t so bad--roomy, relatively clean, and well-lit by mage light. Then again, the holding paddock in Lordaeron saved for stumbling idiots who got their asses whooped at the capital tavern after midnight was probably not the best comparison. Not that _he’d_ ever had his ass beaten. He was never anything but victorious; that didn’t matter, he’d quickly learned, to the city guards.

He stretched with a deep growl and flopped his back onto the bench, knees bent and boots flat on the wood, and pillowed his head with his hands. He whistled a tune. It echoed in a pleasing way against the stone ceiling, so he did it again.

“Must you?” a Silvermoon guard asked. He couldn’t see her, but her voice was dragging and haughty. Nathanos didn’t need a translator to tell him that she felt utterly disrespected to be assigned to guard the human prisoner.

“Hm?” Nathanos said, not moving from his sprawling lounge. “No, I suppose not, but how else am I to pass the time?”

“You humans are insufferable,” she remarked, pacing in front of the bars of the cell. The blue and gold of her armor reminded him of Sylvanas’, but it was less elegant. She was not a Farstrider. “Did you think you’d get away with stealing a missive from Quel’thalas?”

“Stealing a--look, lady, I don’t know what you’ve heard, but it’s not true. Lady Sylvanas Windrunner asked that I take the--”

“Silence, scum,” she said. “The prince currently entertains a party of humans as equally insufferable as you. They are convinced we’ve inducted a human in our Farstrider ranks. They are unreasonably pleased and our royalty now must tiptoe this political travesty and because, what, you decided to have fun on a boring afternoon?”

Nathanos propped himself on a forearm, face contorted in confusion. Before he could interrupt, the high elf continued on her tirade.

“Or was this the Windrunner spawn scheming yet again? A mouth on that one, I’ll say. The loss of her elder sister is one from which our military might never recover and one day we’ll be stuck with this firecracker as Ranger-General who can’t hold her tongue or fake decorum for even a moment's---”

“Hey, watch it,” Nathanos growled, not knowing why. What right had he to defend Lady Windrunner here, in her home, in the prison cell of a foreign nation? For all he knew, Sylvanas had earned this reputation… though he doubted it.

“Oh dear, are you a _friend_ of the Ranger-General's cub? I might've known. I've heard it runs in the family. Though the paladin, at least, had the good graces to bathe before approaching nobility.”

He ignored the jab and ignored the fact that she was right. “You've got loose lips and the wrong story. You wouldn't want me returning to Lordaeron with less than sparkling reports with regard to my mistaken imprisonment, would you? This will already strain our people's pact enough.”

That gave the guard pause.

“I see you have some sense in you,” Nathanos continued, swinging his legs to plant his feet on the floor. “Now, tell me, what’s the quickest way out of this cell? Is there a trial? Someone I have to pay? How do you elves mete out justice?”

The guard rolled her eyes. “That is the Ranger-General’s call. If there is truly no foul, we cannot keep you. If what you say is true, the wrath of the crown would then be Sylvanas Windrunner’s to deal with.”

“And, indulge me, the ignorant human I am. What would be so bad about a human couriering a few letters for the Lady Windrunner? And what, pray tell, would be so inconceivable as a human farstrider? I’ve a hand for the bow, myself.”

The guard laughed boisterously, a dramatic guffaw so punctuated he could almost feel the breeze waft from her rouge-tinted mouth. “That child’s toy of a bow we confiscated? Unlikely. And perhaps you are too simple to understand that this understanding between the humans and Quel’thalas is little more than a pleasantry to maintain trade routes and staging areas against troll incursions. As a whole, your kind and your settlements are little more than a collective bulwark for our lands.”

“Tell me how you really feel,” Nathanos quipped.

“I just did,” she said very seriously.

He simply stared at her over the open silence. “Uh, yeah,” he sighed. “Human saying. Nevermind.” He walked up to the bars then, leaving space between the guard and himself by leaning up against the far side of the grate. “Well, Lady…”

She regarded him cooly, refusing to introduce herself.

“Right. Lady Guard, then. I hope something or someone changes your mind about us humans one day,” Nathanos said honestly. “We might have a lot of share with each other.”

The guard snorted. “What can you _possibly_ lend to a culture steeped in rich history, to an elegant kind who live many several times your tiny lifespan?”

Nathanos smirked. “How do you feel about fresh vegetables?”

 

X

 

Sylvanas’ suspension had become house arrest. As soon as her mother arrived home the night of Nathanos’ imprisonment, she’d made it very clear that any attempts to remain involved in the political situation with the human would mean further, steeper repercussions for Sylvanas. And, though she bristled, Sylvanas knew better than to push the Ranger-General any further.

Sylvanas knew her oath to Quel’thalas.

Even still, she was forced to reread the entirety of the Farstriders’ Oath, a nine hundred and seventy three paged handwritten tome. Every morning at dawn, she was to hunt dinner with the recruits, then lead and participate in no less than three stamina training circuits in Windrunner Village. Afternoons would be spent fletching arrows, stitching quivers, and shaping bows for the armory. By sunset, she was lucky if she could keep her eyes open to manage small talk with the Ranger-General and Vereesa over supper, let alone plan a covert infiltration on the prison.

In her bone-deep exhaustion, she felt like a recruit again, though she didn’t blame her mother as to why--and she certainly knew the punishments could be far worse. But even as she conceded her plants to bust Nathanos out of the dungeons, she couldn’t stop thinking about him. Was he alright? Did they free him of their own accord? After all, he’d done no wrong. But her mother would tell her nothing and it had been nearly two weeks.

Two weeks.

Sylvanas had told him to meet her at Thalassian Pass in a fortnight, and a fortnight was soon to come. If he was yet free, would he remember? After the mess she’d gotten him in, would he want to?

As midnight neared and white moonlight spilled over her bare shoulders, Sylvanas diligently carved a thick, strong length of dried tree wood. She procured it herself that same evening from the most beautiful tree she could find, sequestered as she was to Windrunner Village. This was from a limb of a hybrid tree with bark whorls like the marbled panthers of Stranglethorn Vale. Very strong but very smooth in the palm. Stifling a yawn, she shook off her fatigue and blew wood dust from the intricate designs she’d whittled into the wood. Working on the equipment for the Farstrider armory for so many boring afternoons, she had pilfered a few materials and stashed them away in her bedroom. Now, at last, she had enough to craft Nathanos his own Farstrider bow and a quiver befitting his stature, stocked with perfectly fletched arrows.

She’d meet him at Thalassian Pass and see what the talented human had to offer with the right equipment. And, if he could keep up, she’d take great pleasure in showing him exactly why felling _her_ in the woods was such a feat. But only if he could keep up.

She wasn’t _cruel._

She chuckled to herself as she engraved Thalassian symbols down the edge of his bow. She’d never go through all the trouble of making this bow for him if she thought he’d fail to excel, true, but she knew well that the Farstriders had confiscated his personal weaponry and with that knowledge came a certain guilt. This gift, perhaps, could be an apology on behalf of her nation and the Farstriders themselves.

She held it up in the moonlight and smirked, a fang glinting aggressively beneath her upturned lip. Nathanos Marris would slay his enemies with a Windrunner original carved from the trees of Quel’thalas and her superiors would be none the wiser and oh, that pleased her.

It pleased her so _very_ much.

 

X

 

As two weeks to the day of Nathanos’ imprisonment came to pass, Sylvanas made her way down the winding ramp to the grounds of Windrunner Spire. The freshly made bow and quiver were strapped to her back beneath her own and she had every intention of traveling to the Pass today; she need only devise a plan in which she took just a little too much time during training circuits with the young Farstrider recruits, or perhaps she would lie and say she tracked large prey and planned to follow it to the end of its journey. She tried to saunter leisurely, casually to the stables but as always, her little sister was keen to her every movement.

“Morning, Sylvanas,” Vereesa said from her roost on the lowest rung of the stable fence, tying her boots and squinting up at Sylvanas through the sunrise. She shielded her face with a gloved hand. “Minn’da says you don’t have to hunt today.”

“Oh?” Sylvanas placed herself to block the sun from Vereesa’s view to better read her sister’s face. “Did she leave early today?”

“Last night. Troll patrol.” She pulled the other boot onto her foot, shimmying her heel inside. “She said to tell you your suspension rolls into your leave time and be ready to work after you get your head together. Her words, not mine.”

“Of course,” Sylvanas said, feeling oddly light. “That’s pleasant news. And what are you up to then, Little Moon?”

“Taking over your coaching of the recruits. I suppose I should be glad of the minor promotion, but already I feel tired,” Vereesa grumbled. “How is that which is a discipline for you a promotion for me?”

“Rank, dear sister,” Sylvanas said, ruffling Vereesa’s silver hair. “All is but pomp and circumstance when in the end, we’re all here to kill.”

“That’s... depressing.”

“That’s _necessary_ ,” Sylvanas corrected, taking a knee before her, “to protect and defend Quel’thalas. And you come from a line of the best.” Vereesa’s face hardened and she nodded, jutting her chin. “That’s it, Windrunner. Time to toughen up the new bloods.” As Vereesa stood to stretch, Sylvanas tapped her own chin, feigning an off-handedness she did not feel. “And what of that human prisoner, then? Have you heard anything?”

Vereesa snorted. “Easy, sister. They sent him home the very next morning with an official apology to the Lordaeron Alliance. I thought you knew.”

Sylvanas almost smiled but cleared her throat instead. “No, I didn’t. I just thought since my suspension is, ah, suspended, I ought to follow up with the well-being of the poor oaf.”

Vereesa pursed her lips and shook her head. “‘Oaf’ is not the word I’d use for that human.”

“No?” Sylvanas furrowed her brow. “So you’ve met him?”

“Saw him,” she said. She tugged her bottom lip between her teeth and cocked an eyebrow suggestively. “And it was the _only_ explanation I needed.”

“Sister, don’t be lewd!” Sylvanas chided, flicking her ear. “It’s not befitting a young Farstrider.”

Vereesa laughed, rubbing her earlobe. “Am I _wrong_?”

Sylvanas didn’t answer. She only rolled her eyes and unlatched the gate to the hawkstrider corral, clicking her tongue to summon and saddle Gibi.

“I’m not wrong!” Vereesa called after her as she swung onto her hawkstrider. Let Vereesa merely wonder where she was headed.

As if she hadn’t already figured it out by the two bows on Sylvanas’ back.

 

X

 

Approaching Thalassian Pass, Sylvanas was apprehensive. It had been half a moon’s cycle. Perhaps she was wasting her time. She did not doubt her own feelings on the matter; she wanted to see him again. She _was_ the one to suggest this meeting. But what if he saw no point? Perhaps he was only being kind to avoid the political dung heap of attacking a Farstrider on his own land and now that the crisis had been averted, he would retreat to his farming and husbandry. Perhaps his hospitality was just innate.

She took a deep, steadying breath to the rhythm of her mount’s pat-pat-pattering feet. No, he’d be there, or she’d knock on his farmstead door and remind him of their plans.

As the landscape began to shift toward the open fields and meadows of Lordaeron, the unmistakable barking of two mutts echoed through the pass. Little by little, the two blurs on the horizon sharpened into focus, and all at once, at full tilt, they galloped toward her. “Well, if it isn’t his two drooling companions,” she muttered to herself. Smart little creatures, they were, to track her scent so far and after so long. She could barely bring Gibi to an easy cantor as the dogs circled around her bird’s feet, tails wagging fiercely. She glanced down one flank and then the other, tugging her reins and hoping they wouldn’t be crushed under hawkstrider talons as the bird danced in a high-footed circle.

A sharp whistle from their master brought the dogs to a halt and Sylvana’s ears swiveled toward the sound. There he was, right at the Pass, just as planned. She brought her ride just short of him and greeted him with a soft smile.

“Bal'a dash, malanore,” she said on her approach. “You’re here.”

“You said to be here, my lady, so here I am,” Nathanos replied as if the answer were as simple as breathing, hints of his own smile under his moustache. He certainly cleaned up well, she noted. His beard was freshly lined and his face, scrubbed clean of the farm grime, had a rosy youthfulness she’d missed before--and a smattering of copper freckles, very stark in the sunlight. He offered her his hand and she took it, pleased once more by its roughness and glad it didn’t disappoint memory.

Sylvanas slid from the saddle and Gibi chirped sweetly as her rider removed her reins and smoothed her neck, her black feathers glinted a purple-green in the midday sun. “Thank you for a safe journey,” Sylvanas said in Thalassian, as she always did, and Gibi pressed her beak to her cheek.

“An interesting creature,” Nathanos remarked, watching carefully as Sylvanas ran her fingers between Gibi’s eyes, her bird’s sweet spot. As the bird chittered, his brows drew together in a frown.

“Have you never seen a hawkstrider?” Sylvanas asked, leading Gibi a bit closer to him.

Nathanos took a wide step backwards. “Only from afar.” Gibi immediately missed the attention from Sylvanas and reached her head out toward Nathanos, but he only flinched. “I wondered how a bird might keep an armored warrior aloft. I see now they are quite a bit larger than I’d assumed.”

“Well, we train horses, as well.” She regarded his peculiar behavior with eyes askance. “Particularly for assaults. But Gibi is what you could call a childhood friend and I’ve no need for armor today.”

“I can see that,” Nathanos said, appraising her as he moved further still. In only tight linen breeches and a thin tunic, she made it quite clear that she was off-duty. Sylvanas was glad he’d noticed, as was indeed her intention. “Had you been wearing this the day I shot you, perhaps I’d have made much better time dragging your sorry carcass to my home. And I’d have far less back pain.”

“Ha-ha. It would seem neither elves nor our birds are the airy waifs you thought they were.”

“Clearly,” Nathanos said. She noticed the way his eyes traced over her arms. “I believe this is the day you are to show me real archery, is that right?”

“Quite so,” Sylvanas said, flexing her bicep ever so slightly as she slicked a strand of breeze-blown hair behind her ear. It got exactly the reaction she’d hoped for. “But our plans are hampered by my recent suspension. While I’d have loved to flaunt Silvermoon’s very best archery courses and test your skills against our official standards, it’s probably best I don’t parade you around the city so soon.”

“But you _do_ have plans to parade me?” he joked.

“It depends on how well you perform. Do not disappoint.”

“I don’t plan to, my lady. Only,” and Nathanos paused, looking over his shoulder, “your fine brethren confiscated my bow and I haven’t had a moment to fashion a new one. Not to your… exacting standards, anyway.”

Sylvanas smiled and reached for the redundant bow at her back. “You needn’t worry. I’ve brought you something better than you could ever make.”

 

X

 

Nathanos always prided himself a decent archer--and, yes, he was, and he’d had his fair share of bullseyes at very long ranges this afternoon--but Sylvanas Windrunner was simply on another level. As she pounced in one fluid motion from a bale of hay to roll under another bale set upon two barrels and fired one, two, three arrows right into the head of their makeshift scarecrow dummy a field’s length away, he had to wonder if she were even _mortal_.

“Your turn, farm boy,” she said as she sauntered by him. She wasn’t even breathless. He rolled his eyes as she cocked her head to the side, smirking, the bow slung over her shoulder.

“I do believe you are showing off, Lady Windrunner.”

“Scared, Nathanos?” she goaded, handing him two recovered arrows.

“No,” he answered, and he wasn’t. He took the arrows and dropped them in his quiver, where they knocked pleasantly against his current stash. They were beautifully made. “Merely being realistic. You are being groomed to be Ranger-General of the Farstriders, after all, and unlike elves, we humans have to grapple with gravity and the like. I’m... unsure that bale will hold.”

“Never know until you try,” Sylvanas said, nudging his shoulder. The way she teased him was equally frustrating as it was enamoring. He never knew whether to quip back or to--

Well. To find some way to silence her.

She was saying something teasingly again and all he could focus on was the way her lips looked, pink and dewy right where her tongue darted to moisten them after her acrobatics. It was warm today and as the sun beat down on their bodies, she’d discarded her tunic, happy enough to shoot targets in little more than a leather bustier, her impossibly toned midriff practically sparkling in the--

“Nathanos?”

She was staring at him, one long eyebrow tilted upward, her glowing eyes squinting. She knew. Oh, hell. She knew.

“Yes, well, if I try this and end up looking the fool, I daresay you were forewarned,” he said, trying desperately to tune back into the conversation. He should’ve known it was too late by the mischievous tilt of her head.

“You already look quite the fool where you stand,” she said. And, Light help him, she moved closer. He could feel the warmth her skin had absorbed radiating onto his own, where she pressed her midriff ever closer to his forearm. “You seem distracted.”

“Yes, well, I was tending the fields early this morning to make time for this--”

And she stepped behind him, a hand trailing toward his shoulder, along his neck. He swallowed hard.

“Relax,” she said, so very quietly next to his ear. She began kneading a point on his shoulder blade. “Humans may be a clodding sort but not every elf is an acrobat. Regardless, you’ll never land this little jump if you’re... _tense_.” She pressed a knuckle against the hard plane of his flank.

“Is that so?” he grumbled. The way she worked the knots in his muscles almost made him moan. Almost. But he knew instinctively the game she was playing and he wasn’t going to let her win.

Yet.

“It is.” And now both hands worked at his shoulders. He shouldn’t have been surprised, given her combat training, but her hands were remarkably strong. “See, the secret is not size or build. It’s trust. It’s fluidity.” She punctuated her t’s and hissed her s’s in a way that traveled from his ears to his spine to his--

“It’s grace under pressure,” she continued, switching to whisper in his other ear. “And, yes, a whole lot of training. I only wish to see you try, Nathanos. Failure or no.” And then, all too suddenly, she patted both his shoulders twice and moved quickly away.

He missed her body immediately.

“We’ll start with the explosive leaps first. I think you’ll be surprised if you simply trust your legs. Here, I’ll take your bow and quiver,” Sylvanas said, holding out her hands. He looked at her, uncertain, then passed off his equipment. She looked him up and down, down and up. “And you’re wearing far too much.”

“I’m… sorry?” Nathanos said. He was definitely feeling very hot and stifled, but his apparel was proving to be effective concealment. The last thing he needed was for her to…

“Take it off.”

She was at him immediately, untying his leather vest. “You’ll notice something about elves. We do not like to weigh ourselves down with needless layers.”

He tapped her hands away from him. “I’ve got it, thanks. No vest.” He clumsily untied the rawhide strings under her incredibly overt scrutiny.

“Your riding boots need to go. They constrict the natural bend of the knee.”

“But what of footwear?”

“None. You will drill this barefoot, just like every young elf trains in the forests. You have to learn to feel the earth beneath you. Feel its shifts, its temperature. Let it give then let it hold you.” If he didn’t know any better, he’d say she was rambling. And if he didn’t know any better, he’d say it was because the tunic under his leather vest was cut deeper than she’d expected when he removed his _needless layers_ . To mark his point, he dropped the tunic at her feet with a commanding _plop._

He held her eyes as her words died away in her throat and then squatted to unlace his boots. “Let it give... then... let it hold you,” he repeated, perhaps more slowly than he needed to, perhaps more dramatically.

She probably hoped he hadn’t caught the way her cheeks flushed, judging by the way she rolled her eyes and scoffed. “Just get on with it, then!” she muttered, turning away. He laughed, so she turned and kicked his discarded vest back at his face.

He caught it with ease, still chuckling. “Your words, not mine!”

“You’re as bad as my kid sibling, human,” she growled, but there was no anger in it.

He smiled a little at the insight her insult brought. Yes, she did seem the protective older sister type. “Brother or sister?”

She froze. He’d only meant to have conversation, to get to know the beautiful elf he shot a little more, but it seemed he’d stumbled upon a landmine. With the time that passed as Nathanos busied himself removing his boots and hosen, he assumed she wouldn’t answer and of course, he’d not press the issue.

“Sister,” she said at last, clearing her throat. “My little brother was killed not long ago.”

Nathanos looked up and stood. “I’m sorry to hear that, my lady,” he said softly.

Sylvanas nodded a few more times than was strictly necessary. “But what’s passed is past,” she said abruptly, but as she walked away, he caught her swiping angrily at her eyes. “What matters now,” she announced then, all business, “is you leaping upon this bale without mishap, throwing your weight forward, and tucking into a roll. We’ll add the bow next.”

“Aye, captain,” Nathanos barked and snapped his best Lordaerian salute.

“Ah-ah, no,” she corrected, “it’s _ranger-captain_ and given that I’ve armed you with a Thalassian bow I’ll accept only a Thalassian salute. Here.” She took his forearm and placed it perpendicularly across his chest and pressed it there. “A salute with your weapon hand to your heart shows you’ll give all for your land and your people.”

She looked up at him. She was very nearly his height. Short of bracing her unconscious body to and from his farm, they’d never been so close. Her beautiful, smooth skin was ever so slightly lined in the corner of her eyes, where they crinkled when she smiled. Beyond the arcane glow, he could see they were delicately outlined with khol. Again he could smell that sweet, yet herbally spicy, and utterly delightful scent he’d smelled when he held her on horseback. He was sure it was mostly her own with a touch of some fancy Silvermoon soaps. It made him want to press his face between her neck and shoulder to smell more. He very nearly did, stopped only by a peculiar look in Sylvanas’ eyes.

This close, he was reminded of how he’d discovered the elves _did_ have something like pupils beyond the glow. And her eyes, now thankfully with pupils the same size, darted slowly between his own as if unsure where to focus. Every so often they landed a little lower, on his lips. Was she going to say something? Was she going to…

“I would like to kiss you, Nathanos,” she said simply, “if you are amenable.”

“I--uh, yes, I am,” Nathanos responded all in a stutter, but when he leaned forward to acquiesce, she had flitted away yet again.

“Good. Then it shall be your reward for mastering this obstacle. On your mark, Marris!” she called out, leaping onto the fence to spectate in a graceful crouch. “Go, go!”

And all at once, with his heart in his throat and clad in little but a tunic and courtly breeches and the barest of feet, he glanced at Sylvanas, at the bale of hay, and took off at full speed.

Was it his racing adrenaline, the lightness he felt at the prospect of winning her kiss? Or was it the lack of leathers and mail, of weaponry? He couldn’t know for sure, but as he felt her beautiful eyes on his back, he would bet fifty silver on the former. He was no elf, but he sprung cleanly atop the hay bale and dove forward like a gryphon, tucking cleanly beneath the next bale, rolling easily between the barrels. He didn’t quite land in shooting position, but it was certainly good enough. As he collapsed onto his back and laughed into the sun, her face filled his view.

He felt the pressure of her thighs around his waist before he realized what she was doing and he was still mid-laugh when she caught his mouth with her own. After a short, artful moment of restrained pressure, she broke away. “Well done, Nathanos,” she said quietly, teasing his lips with her breath, but before he could thank her she’d pinned his hands above and beside his head and kissed him once more, all restraint disregarded.

He couldn’t resist even if he’d wanted to but oh, he did _not_ want to. Elves, he soon realized, did not kiss like humans. Sure, they had lips and mouths and tongues like humans did, but whatever she was doing was some sort of elevated art form. Their lips danced and she made it so easy to follow even as she tilted her face for better leverage. Unexpectedly her tongue slipped next to his, tracing along its sides, swirling all about, and always finding a perfect crevice of his mouth to inhabit.

It occurred to them that this might not be an elf thing. This might be a _Sylvanas_ thing.

The more magic she worked with his mouth, the less control he felt. When she delicately released one of his wrists, he wondered if that was her goal. As if hearing his thoughts, she opened her eyes and caught his as she steadied her breath. They narrowed predatorily. _Hint taken_. His free hand roamed over her back, tracing down her spine and over the soft, sensitive skin of her flank. He felt her shudder.

But, no, not enough for her.

She grabbed his free hand and splayed it over her right breast. He smiled dumbly against her lips in surprise, cradling her breast’s warm weight in his palm, hanging heavily as it was in the position she was in. With aroused glee, he felt her nipple harden against his touch. She broke the kiss and grinned lopsidedly at him, pleased with his reaction. Not to be left out of the delicious buildup, she settled her weight firmly on Nathanos’ lap. He’d never been more thankful to have shed his leathers; his linen breeches left precious little for Sylvanas to imagine.

And if the look on her face was anything to go by, she was very, very pleasantly surprised by what she felt.

Bumbling human, indeed.

He didn’t know how long they spent under the bale of hay and he didn’t care. If it were up to him, he’d spend weeks out here, pleasuring Sylvanas Windrunner in the cooling heat of the evening sun.

 

X

 

As all good things did, their cavorting came to an end, but neither deigned to end the night. At some point, Sylvanas convinced Nathanos to climb onto his farmstead’s roof with her. “The stars are coming out,” she’d explained as she crouched on the roofing shingles, “and the nightsounds around Lordaeron are really quite lovely.” Then, her smirk. “I had been enjoying them quite recently until some foolhardy human had the gall to _shoot me out of a tree.”_

“I did _not_ shoot you out of a tree! You were on the ground ready to slay me with that battle sword of yours--”

“Ah, but only in self defense,” Sylvanas answered. “The rock to the head was truly an unnecessary measure, you know. But an interesting use of the terrain and one I shall keep in my arsenal.”

“As if your arsenal needs more tricks,” Nathanos scoffed.

“A Farstrider is always learning. Something I wish was true of all my people, but perhaps, one day, you’ll help them get there.”

Nathanos looked over at Sylvanas, head propped up on his arm. She was looking thoughtfully into the night sky, hands folded over her abdomen. By all accounts, she did not seem to be joking.

“I beg your pardon?”

She looked over at him. Her eyes were so much brighter now, contrasted against the darkness. They illuminated her soft smile. “I see so much in you, Nathanos.”

He snorted derisively. “Perhaps your lust clouds your vision, my lady.”

“Very little clouds my vision,” she said, “and this attraction I admittedly feel is…” She turned on her side, mirroring his posture. “It is not just your aesthetics. There is something about you.”

“Your first human, eh?” Nathanos joked.

“Actually, yes, but that is not to my point. Or perhaps it is.”

“I’m not following.”

Sylvanas took a breath then. She looked down at her hand, tracing a pattern on the wooden shingles beneath them. “I’m not universally liked as the future ranger-general. As you might’ve guessed.”

“I might have… heard as much during my little stay at the Dungeon Inn,” Nathanos admitted. “You seem to have a knack for poking bears.”

“Ah, a Common saying with a Thalassian equivalent. _Anaria fallah no dracon ronae_. Do not rouse a sleeping dragon. One of my mother’s favorites.” Sylvanas tilted her head, regarding him. “Sometimes a dragon must be slain. Sometimes a dragon goes mad with power, or complacent with riches. I only poke the bears that have slept too long inside our borders. I want the best for Quel’thalas.”

“You flatter me.”

“No, I--well, yes.” Sylvanas paused. “As one of many foundation-shattering decisions I’d like to make, one would be to train and induct an outsider into the Farstriders.”

Nathanos laughed. “You’re kidding, right? Did this whole debacle with the Lordaeron council and my arrest so inspire you?”

“In a manner of speaking. I’d long questioned why an order dependent on scouting lands and protecting threats from beyond our walls should be so isolated. Know your enemy, right?”

“So you’d want me as, what, an interloper? A treasonous insider?”

“Please, Silvermoon will never make an enemy of the humans.” Sylvanas reached out to brush her fingertips along the back of Nathanos’ hand. “And especially not once they’ve seen what you can do. I’d want you in my ranks, Nathanos. You shoot as well if not better than anyone in my battalions. You’re incredibly strong. You’ve proven at least some remarkable agility for a human. And beyond that, I feel an inexplicable trust, like that of which beastmasters speak of their beloved companions.”

“Oh, brilliant,” Nathanos said, “so you wish to have me as a hunting pet?”

“That’s not what I mean! Perhaps it’s not the same for humans, but animal companions and the forest spirits are more than… Look, I only mean to say that you would be incredible in battle and I’d want you by my side.”

“All this because I managed to land a shot in your shoulder,” Nathanos said, poking the faded scar under the strap of Sylvanas’ tunic. “Imagine I’d killed you on the spot! Would you come back from the dead to recruit me?”

“Ha-ha, perhaps only for revenge,” Sylvanas said with subdued humor. “But as I suspected, your shot is only that much better with a real bow. A real bow that is now yours.”

“Thank you. I will treasure it.”

“I hope it sees plentiful use.”

“Are you bribing me?”

“No.” Sylvanas rolled over and stared again into the dark expanse of sky above them. “I would have much work to do to soften my people into even trialing you for recruitment. I only hope it could be something you’re open to one day, even if it is ridiculous.”

Nathanos frowned. “Look, I--I’m a farmer. My family’s land is my business, my heritage.”

Sylvanas looked away sadly. “I understand.”

“But you see something in me. Something… something to be proud of. _Someone_ to be proud of. And, Lady Windrunner, if it’s not too bold to say--”

“Boldness welcomed.”

Nathanos took a deep, steadying breath. “I will continue to accept your training, should you wish to offer it.”

Sylvanas sat up a bit, eyebrows raised. “You will?”

“It means I get to keep seeing you. And it just so happens that I will be in and out of Quel’thalas a bit more often in the coming months.”

“Oh?”

“It would appear you’re not the only elf I can charm.” Nathanos straightened and gave Sylvanas a crooked grin. “It happens that my jailer has a fondness for sauteed pumpkin, and, influenced by _absolutely_ no backhanded means such as blackmail or the like, she mentioned said fondness to a member of the Sunstrider family, who couldn’t _possibly_ pass on an opportunity to test such a foreign delicacy and then your mother--”

Sylvanas buried her face in her hands. “Oh, no.”

“Oh, _yes_ . Those ration reports you had me courier? Your mother discovered Lordaeron provides their troops with twice the rations at a quarter of the price. It would seem protein-rich vegetation is cost-effective _and_ delicious. While turning you elves into omnivores might be quite a task indeed, the Ranger-General could not deny the costs savings and ordered a regular supply from none other than, oh, the Marris Stead.”

Sylvanas shook her head slowly back and forth. “Nathanos Marris, you cunning human. You spoke with my mother?”

“I did. She was aloof but apologetic, besides.”

“Sounds about right,” Sylvanas said. “Her choosing you as a supplier was an atonement, though, and I’m quite surprised at her willingness to have a human in and out of the capital on a regular basis.”

“As was I,” Nathanos said, then reached out to brush her cheek with a thumb, “but not at all bothered. I’d already started scheming ways to overlap paths with you.”

“There will be no scheming necessary, Nathanos. I will train you and you, along with the rest of Quel’thalas, will be in awe of the warrior you become. Mark me.”

Sylvanas sealed her promise with a firm kiss, her hand braced behind Nathanos’ head. She pressed her forehead to his, smiling mischievously. “And all that comes along with that, may it come.”

And so they kissed and they bantered and they rested on the rooftop underneath the stars, heedless of the stars’ bitter warnings of a future cold and anguished; they were a farmer and a farstrider, ever warm and ever alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all your support of this ficlet. I've enjoyed writing it far too much and this ship is dear to me, so keep your eyes peeled! :)


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